


Rotten work

by nahchilles



Series: Eat bitter, taste sweet [1]
Category: Miss Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, the usual matchmaking trope nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2020-08-19 02:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20201896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahchilles/pseuds/nahchilles
Summary: Wato wouldn’t call her lonely, because Sherlock would scoff in her face if she tried, but… A while back, when Wato had felt lost and alone, Sherlock had given her purpose, and something akin to family. So maybe this is Wato returning the favor.(In which Wato plays matchmaker for Sherlock. It goes as well as you’d expect.)





	1. Girl, you've really got a hold on me

**Author's Note:**

> hi is this tag still alive?? still goin?? i lit rally have Zero time to be writing fic and yet….. here i am! 
> 
> uh this has been sitting on my laptop for probably over a year now, which is unfortunate. i have no idea if anyone’s still around to read this but i’m posting it anyway! get ready for another godawful three-parter.
> 
> [and yes, the title is from that quote you’re thinking of](https://soracities.tumblr.com/post/169231372828/euripides-from-orestes-an-oresteia-trans)

The idea comes to her early one Tuesday morning while she fills the rice cooker for breakfast.

In her sleep-hazy state, it seems brilliant. Sherlock’s been a little down lately without so many cases to fill her time, and over the past few days, she seems to have morphed into some sort of reclusive creature that stomped around the apartment in expensive pajamas and survived solely on convenience store chocolate. 

And besides that, Sherlock’s always been so closed off. Wato wouldn’t call her lonely, because Sherlock would scoff in her face if she tried, but… A while back, when Wato had felt lost and alone, Sherlock had given her purpose, and something akin to family. So maybe this is Wato returning the favor, because even if her own love life had crashed and burned miserably, that doesn’t mean that Sherlock’s is doomed to the same fate.

And then she wakes up for real, and realizes that it’ll be fucking  _ impossible _ to convince Sherlock to go along with this.

Still, Wato is determined to pull this off.

“So, I was thinking--”

“No,” Sherlock says without even looking up from her phone. She’s sprawled out on the sofa like any minute now, she’ll melt into it for good.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” Wato says, exasperated. “What if I was about to tell you about a new case?”

“You weren’t,” Sherlock says, managing to sound self important and like a petulant teenager all at once. “You were going to try to get me to go out and  _ do things. _ ”

“What’s wrong with that? You haven’t left the apartment in three days.  _ Three days! _ You can’t just lock yourself in here forever.” 

“It seems to be working out fine, so far,” Sherlock says. 

Wato takes a deep breath. Well, Sherlock isn’t going to give her much of an opening, so she might as well just go for it. “I want to set you up with someone.”

That gets Sherlock to look.

“Listen! I’m pretty sure I could find someone you won’t hate. I mean, I know you better than anyone else,” Wato says, which, in her unprofessional opinion, isn’t an exaggeration, even if they factor Kento into the equation. She and Sherlock -- they’ve come a long way over the past year. Wato’s pretty sure she’s become the leading authority on all things Sherlock.

(Certainly not because she’s told Wato anything, because asking Sherlock about her past is like pulling teeth. But Wato has lived with her for so long, and proximity breeds a specific kind of intimacy; one that goes deeper than any words Wato has to describe it.)

“Is that so?” Sherlock says, amusement coloring her tone. 

“Yes! Have some faith in me. I’ll find someone that you’ll like.” Sherlock snorts at that. Wato sighs. “At least go on one date. One date, then I’ll leave you alone.”

Sherlock stares at her. Then she turns her attention back to her phone and says, “Fine. Do what you want. I’ll be waiting.”

“Really?” Wato says, surprised. She’d thought she would have to wear her down for several more hours, if not days, before she gave in. Still, she’s come prepared. “Okay, well, there’s this guy from the library I used to work at -- not fake Hemingway, someone else -- he’s smart, and nice, and he studies politics...” 

She trails off when Sherlock gives her this look, like she's missed something fundamentally obvious. The Look isn't uncommon, especially when they’re on a case, so Wato chooses to ignore it.

“Come on, give him a chance! You said that you would!”

Sherlock just stares at her, the Look unfaltering.

\--

Sherlock takes one look at Takaya and proceeds to recite a fucking  _ dissertation _ on every single one of his flaws before turning around and walking out of the cafe. Wato apologizes profusely to a shellshocked Takaya, fumbling a thousand yen bill out of her wallet and leaving it on the table before running after her.

“What was  _ that? _ ” she says when she catches up to Sherlock, out of breath. “You said you’d give him a chance!”

“I did,” Sherlock says. “I met him, didn’t I?” 

“You didn’t meet him, you  _ gutted _ him! You tore him to pieces!”

Sherlock sniffs. “He deserved it. Political science majors are always so fucking narcissistic.”

“He didn’t even get to say a word to you! You can’t do that to every guy you meet.”

“I can, because every single one of them is a conceited, condescending, lying bastard.”

“Always so bleak,” Wato sighs. “Don’t say anything like that to your next date.”

Sherlock stops and turns to her, eyes narrowed. “You said one date.”

“Whatever that was, it did  _ not _ count as a date.”

“You never specified the  _ requirements _ for a date to be completed. I went to the cafe and said more than five words to him. I think that’s more than enough.”

“Everything is so complicated with you.” Wato pinches the bridge of her nose. “Okay, okay. For a date to count, it needs to last at  _ least _ half an hour, and you need to have at least one  _ real _ conversation that isn’t just you insulting the poor boy.”

“You always have such unrealistic expectations.”

  
  


\--

  
  


Wato should have seen it coming when Sherlock drives Kaito away exactly fifteen minutes into their date.

Technically, Wato shouldn’t have seen it at all, because she’s supposed to be back at their apartment and not spying on Sherlock’s date, but she knew that Sherlock would just leave early and lie her way around it when Wato asked, so she’d followed a few minutes behind Sherlock to the bar they’d agreed on in a baggy coat with a hood and a surgical mask covering half her face. There, she situated herself at a booth not too far that she couldn’t see Sherlock and Kaito where they sat at the bar but not so close that Sherlock would notice her immediately. She’d ordered a beer and slouched down, careful to stay in Sherlock’s blind spot, and she hadn’t seemed to notice a thing. Honestly, Wato’s a little proud of herself.

She’d thought that Kaito would be perfect: an investigative journalist with a novel in the making who seemed to know a little of just about everything. He was easy to banter with and difficult to offend, which Wato had thought might be the key to forming any kind of relationship with Sherlock. Unfortunately, after one painfully stilted conversation about the weather, Sherlock had exceeded every one of Wato’s expectations and gotten Kaito so angry that he was practically trembling with it as he gathered his coat and left.

Instead of leaving the bar altogether, though, Sherlock sighs and orders herself another drink.

This is one of the rare opportunities that Wato has to just observe Sherlock. She makes a striking figure where she sits with her long legs drawn up against the bar stool, leaning on the counter with her arms. Even here, something about her posture and the angles of her body is so compelling, practically screaming elegance and grace. The way the bar lights color her face highlights her beauty, the otherworldliness of it. 

A few more men approach Sherlock, but each one leaves after exchanging a few words that Wato can’t hear.

Maybe this is how it was meant to be: Sherlock solitary in her beauty. Wato can’t imagine anyone else being able to hold their ground next to her. Sherlock’s always been on another plane, no one else on equal footing. She tilts her head back to finish off her drink, the smooth column of her throat stark and pale as if it were cut out of marble. She holds the stem of the glass with a delicate, capable precision that Wato has seen in action so many times. Wato might spend a little too long staring and ignoring her own drink.

A woman slides into the barstool next to Sherlock, and says a few words to her, smiling. She seems friendly enough, but friendly has never really meshed well with Sherlock. Wato counts the seconds until Sherlock inevitably says something too offensive, too blunt, and drives her away.

The moment never comes.

The woman laughs at something that Sherlock says, and Sherlock actually  _ smiles. _ Then, the smile turns into a smirk that makes Wato’s blood run hot and electric even from across the room, and Sherlock leans in and whispers something into the woman’s ear. She blushes hard, and Sherlock's smirk widens.

Wato comes to a realization.


	2. Like they did in '92

Wato snatches a magazine off of their coffee table and opens it to a random page when she hears Sherlock come in.

“How was your date?” Wato asks, feigning cheerful nonchalance. Her voice comes out a little too strained to be even remotely believable.

“Terrible,” Sherlock says as she takes her coat off and tosses her keys onto the coffee table. “As I’m sure you know, since you were fifteen feet away the whole time. Your magazine is upside down, by the way.”

Guiltily, Wato drops the magazine back onto the table. “You _ knew? _ Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sherlock gives her the Look again, but she seems amused, so she probably isn't actually upset about Wato being there.

Sherlock collapses into the chair across from Wato, slouching into the cushions. After a moment of silence where Sherlock stares up at the ceiling and Wato stares at _ her, _ she says, “Ask. I know you want to.”

Wato purses her lips, not really sure what it is that she wants to know. Everything, everything, but her traitorous mind blanks in the face of the real-life Sherlock sitting a few feet away. Finally, in a small voice, she says, “Why didn’t you just tell me? I wouldn’t have put you through all those dates if I’d known.”

“I thought you knew everything about me.” There’s a teasing lilt in Sherlock’s voice, in her smile as she tilts her head where it’s resting on the backrest of the chair to look at Wato. Still, there’s an underlying seriousness to this conversation, a fragility that Wato knows she could easily overbalance if she says the wrong thing now.

Sherlock sighs, sitting up and resting her forearms on her knees, looking at Wato properly. “Is this going to be a problem?”

“No! No, of course not,” Wato replies, a little blindsided by the question. It hadn’t even occurred to her to look at it that way. That Sherlock might be looking at it that way. She wouldn’t — push Sherlock away, not for this. Never for this.

“Good,” Sherlock says, relieved and more than a little worn around the edges as she slumps back into the chair and lets out a long breath.

—

  
  


Shibata nearly chokes on his coffee when she tells him. He manages to swallow it, then bursts out laughing. "You tried to set Sherlock up with a _ guy? _"

“Two guys,” Wato mutters. “Look, I didn't know, okay! Wait, wait. How did _ you _ know?”

Shibata gets a handle on himself, then frowns. “How did I know? How did you _ not? _ I mean, she has the whole, you know.” He gestures with his hand. “The getup.”

“Not every woman with short hair is a lesbian,” Wato says, mostly to be contrary. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks away. Had it been _ that _ obvious to everyone else?

“Sure, but it’s not the hair, or the outfits, even. It’s just, you know.” Shibata waves his hands around some more, as if Wato’s supposed to have any idea what he’s talking about. “Her _ vibe. _”

“The lesbian vibe,” Wato says flatly.

“_ Yes, _” Shibata says, insistent. “Oh, my god, I can’t believe you didn’t know. You, of all people.”

“Why? What makes me different from everyone else?” Wato asks, still flushed and defensive.

“Uh, you’re her _ best friend? _” Shibata says, like it’s obvious fact and not an indulgent idea that Wato only allows herself to even consider late at night, still hesitant to believe. “I mean, honestly, I always thought, with the way she looks at you sometimes—” Wato blinks at him, waiting for him to continue. “Well, whatever. Tell me more about Sherlock’s horrible dates.”

Wato wants to ask what the hell Shibata _ means _, but she can’t seem to find the words. Instead, she recounts Sherlock brutally shooting Takaya down, framing it so that it makes Shibata laugh so hard he nearly chokes on his drink again.

—

“I’ve decided to take your advice,” Sherlock says one afternoon, apropos to nothing.

“That seems unlikely,” Wato says, frowning down at her laptop screen. “About what?”

“Going out. Doing things.” Sherlock stands behind Wato’s chair and rests her hands on Wato’s shoulders, bending down a little to look at her screen. Her hair brushes the side of Wato’s head, and it sends a spark of _ something _ through Wato. “I have a date tonight. With someone who isn’t an insufferable little prick, for a change. Why are you looking for ornamental jade plants?”

“Must you stick your nose in everything I do?” Wato responds, before the first part of what Sherlock says clicks. “Oh,” she says, a little surprised, but pleased all the same. “With that girl from the bar? That’s good. How did you manage that?”

Sherlock rolls her eyes. “I asked for her number. I’m not hopeless, even if _ you _ seem to think so.”

Wato knows that she isn’t — really, it’s a testament to Sherlock’s less-than-ideal personality that people aren’t falling over themselves for her, what with the hair and cheekbones and the… je ne sais quoi. But she’s been such a hermit these past few months, and Wato’s can’t remember her ever being interested in anyone, per se. And so it’s a little adorable when three hours later, Sherlock is squinting at two identical button-down shirts like she’s about to make a life-altering decision. 

“I’ve never seen you this nervous before,” Wato says.

Sherlock scowls down at the shirt in her left hand. “I’m not nervous. I don’t _ get _ nervous,” she says.

“I can guarantee that she won’t suddenly have a change of heart because you’re wearing burgundy instead of maroon.”

“Don’t be stupid. These blouses have completely different undertones. And fabric grades.” Sherlock tosses the left shirt onto the bed, haphazardly, where it joins the pile of what looks like half of her wardrobe. 

“_ You’re _ being stupid,” Wato says, exasperated. “You’re beautiful. She’ll be too busy falling over herself for you to notice what _ fabric grade _ you’re wearing. Whatever that means.”

Sherlock turns her attention to Wato, then, looking at her with a strange, intense expression.

“What?” Wato says. She feels self-conscious, suddenly, under the heat of Sherlock’s razor-sharp gaze.

Sherlock just shakes her head, like she’s trying to clear her mind, and starts digging through the pile for what’s undoubtedly another set of identical slacks to scrutinize.

  
  


—

  
  


Sherlock goes on her date. She comes home at half-past eleven — not too late, but not too early either — a little more rumpled than when she’d left, but with a satisfied little upturn of the lips. 

Then it happens again, and again, and _ again _ . What’s truly shocking about it all is that Wato’s plan seems to be _ working, _ in that Sherlock seems to have gotten a life outside of brooding and criminology. What goes on in that life, Wato couldn't say. Sherlock is ridiculously tight-lipped about it all, but from a few noncommittal, intentionally vague replies and the texts she’d managed to get a glimpse at over Sherlock’s shoulder, she figures that Sherlock has been seeing the woman she’d chatted up at the bar pretty regularly, and that she seems to like her quite a lot.

Three times in a single week has Wato come home from work to an empty apartment and a note that Sherlock wouldn’t be home for dinner. And it’s been nice, a refreshing change, to have the apartment all to herself. But when she actually has to live through the reality of making dinner for one and eating it in a silent, empty apartment, and washing the dishes all by herself, and then it doesn’t seem so great. A couple times, she makes too much food out of habit and ends up inviting Mrs. Hatano up to their apartment for dinner. 

Wato isn’t blind to the irony of her manhandling Sherlock into the daunting world of adult socialization and dating only to find herself sitting in an empty apartment night after night. And sure, Wato could invite friends over or go out for dinner or do any number of things a normal human being does to stave off loneliness, but she finds herself wishing for the quiet nights together with Sherlock, or even the nights when Sherlock does something stupid like contaminate half their kitchenware with hydrochloric acid. 

It’s just — all this time, Wato’s had Sherlock to herself. They’d been practically living in each other’s pockets for years now, and it’s stupid getting this worked up over a few hours alone.

—

Sherlock comes home one night, later than usual, with her lipstick smudged off and her hair mussed. There are marks on her neck, stark against Sherlock's porcelain skin and poorly hidden by her collar. There's _lipstick_ on her shirt. Wato might stare at her a moment too long as she steps through the doorway. 

Her eyes might linger on the hickeys, and she might feel something acrid and bitter rise up in her throat, but she doesn’t say a word. What Sherlock does is her own business, Wato reminds herself as she forces herself to look away, to focus on whatever it was she’d been doing before Sherlock had wandered in and taken her breath away just by being in the same room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she lives.


	3. You’re my lifeline, are you trying to kill me?

Sherlock gets roped into a case involving a money laundering operation under the guise of an ice cream store. It’s one of the stranger days of Wato’s life, but it ends with a dozen police officers swarming the store’s pastel-colored interior and Sherlock holding a bag containing two free tubs of ice cream for them to bring home, so it isn’t all that bad.

She’s pulling on her coat, gearing up to walk the block and a half to the bus stop when Sherlock grabs her by the collar, like a cat grabbing a kitten by the scruff of its neck, and leads her in the opposite direction. 

“The bus stop is the other way?” Wato reminds her as Sherlock gently manhandles her to some undisclosed location. 

“Good use of observational skills,” Sherlock says blithely. 

Wato lets herself be dragged along. She’s learned out of necessity that the path of least resistance is going with whatever Sherlock has in mind and trusting that she’ll get some kind of explanation eventually. It works out about seventy-five percent of the time. 

  
  
  


—

  
  
  


Where they’re going turns out to be a kickboxing gym 

“Uh. I didn’t know you kickboxed?” Wato says, knowing damn well that Sherlock doesn’t. Or. She’s pretty sure she doesn’t, at least. 

“I don’t.” Sherlock smiles, all cheerful indifference. “But you do. Starting today.”

“Um.” Wato shifts, uncomfortable. “I don’t know if this is my thing, Sherlock.”

“I think it could be good for you, actually,” Sherlock says. “Besides, you’re the one who’s always insisting on  _ trying things _ . And Amaya suggested it.”

“Amaya?”

“The one I went on a date with.”

“Oh.” 

Wato fumbles for something to say, something that won’t make her sound like a jealous mistress or a weirdly codependent lonely roommate, but she blanks and stares at Sherlock’s shifty (why is she  _ shifty _ ?) expression until she’s mercifully interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. As if summoned by her psychological distress, a woman stands behind her, a little shorter than Wato . 

“Are you Tachibana Wato?” she asks, grinning. She’s small but stocky, obviously athletic. 

“Uh— yeah.”

Her grin widens. “My newest student! I’m Hana, I coach most of our trainees here. I hear you’re  _ very _ passionate about kickboxing!” 

“I, uh—” Wato shoots Sherlock a glare. “I don’t know what my  _ friend _ told you, but I barely know anything about kickboxing.”

“That’s fine!” Hana beams. “We take beginners here all the time. Lots of people want to learn self defense nowadays. Us girls’ve gotta stick together!”

Hana leads Wato to a locker room and gets her situated with gloves and shin guards and a plethora of other equipment. 

Wato is hesitant at first, feeling like an awkward, bumbling loser in padding and ill-fitting boxing gloves, but then Hana tightens them for her and starts her off with the basics, and it turns out beating the shit out of sand-filled punching bags is a hell of a good time.

  
  
  


—

  
  
  
  


Wato finally meets Amaya on a grey, rainy Thursday afternoon which finds her and Sherlock tumbling, windswept and soaked with rain, into a quaint cafe a short walk away from the police department. 

They’d just completed a long, tedious debrief that continued well past lunch, leaving most of its constituents hungry and irritable, in part because Sherlock had made it her personal mission to get on the nerves of everyone in the room. At last, the meeting had adjourned. Wato had heaved a long sigh as she and Sherlock took their leave. 

Wato had stared out the glass doors of the station at the downpour of rain, umbrella in hand, trying to figure out a way home that wouldn’t leave them soaking wet, and Sherlock had stared at Wato, her sharp gaze searching. Wato paid it no mind, waited for Sherlock to spit out whatever it was she was building up to.

Just as Wato had been about to suggest that they run for the bus stop, Sherlock blurted out, “Amaya is in the cafe a few blocks from here. Do you want to meet her?”

And so Wato had bitten back a sudden, sharp spike of jealousy and a twinge of uncertainty at what exactly she was supposed to  _ do _ third wheeling on her housemate’s date. Had taken one look at Sherlock’s stupidly nervous expression, so weak to Sherlock’s small shows of vulnerability that she’d agreed with barely any forethought. 

Ten minutes later, she and Sherlock approach a cafe table where one of the most beautiful women Wato’s ever seen in real life is seated. Amaya is dressed sharply in an aubergine set of trousers and a blazer. Wato feels overly conscious, suddenly, of her crumpled blouse, damp from the rain even through her coat. She’s kind of kicking herself for giving in to whatever masochistic tendency brought her here. 

But then Amaya catches sight of them and grins, her chiseled, statuesque face turned kind and welcoming. 

She hugs both of them, even though she and Wato haven’t met before. “So you’re the Wato I’ve heard so much about,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “Come sit! You’re probably hungry. I know  _ I’m _ always famished after a long meeting.”

Minutes into talking to her, Wato can tell exactly what Sherlock sees in Amaya. She talks to Wato easily, in a way that really has Wato believing that she truly cares about her boring stories from work. She has the same piercing eyes, the same too-observant quality that Sherlock has. She keeps up with Sherlock’s abrupt mental jumps easily. She knows how to poke fun at Sherlock a little, the same way Wato does. She makes Sherlock smile.

Amaya has a pretty face, but up close, Wato finds her features all the more beautiful, her strong brow and dark eyes making her face striking. Just like Sherlock, she seems to command every eye in the room when she speaks, but juxtaposed to Sherlock’s chaos, Amaya is a calming presence, charismatic and friendly and naturally warm.  She sees the way the two of them fit together, confident and powerful and alluring. She can’t see how drab, reserved Wato fits into this picture. 

Sherlock gets a call midway through their meal and disappears for a while to yell at some rookie on the police force. The moment she leaves the table, Wato flounders a little, feeling awkward at being left alone with Amaya and then mentally kicking herself for being so thrown off by the prospect of making polite conversation with Sherlock’s girlfriend. She fumbles for something to say for a few painfully awkward seconds (in Wato’s mind, anyway) before Amaya speaks. 

“Sherlock talks about you a lot,” Amaya says with a too-knowing smile. “I see why now.”

That surprises Wato. “I can’t imagine there’s a lot to talk about. I’m not very interesting.”

Amayas smile widens, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a way that makes her even more beautiful — like there’s light emanating from her very soul. Wato flushes, and then prays to whatever god is out there that Amaya doesn’t notice.

“Sure you are,” Amaya continues. “You’re very interesting. And you’re kind, and you care a lot.”

Wato’s blush deepens, but she feels the corners of her mouth turn upward despite herself. 

“You matter to her very much,” Amaya says, still smiling. “Sherlock told me she took you to that kickboxing gym in Kita. How did you like it?”

Wato fights back a cough at the thought that Sherlock  told Amaya about her kickboxing. She wonders what else Sherlock's said about her. “Um. It was a little weird but, at the same time… kind of amazing, actually. I never saw myself doing anything like that, but it made me feel…”

“Powerful?” Amaya says. “Sherlock told me you were on a medical team in Syria,” she says, her gaze apologetic. “I’m not sure if that was something you would’ve wanted her to share.”

“It’s alright,” Wato says, even though she isn’t sure if it is.

“This is presumptuous of me, but I went through something similar. For a long time I felt… weak. Helpless. Like I wasn’t in control of your own body. Reconnecting with my own physical strength helped with that. When Sherlock told me about you, well. It reminded me of myself.” She smiles, sheepish. “Sorry. I know it wasn’t my place.”

Amaya hits the mark dead on with an accuracy that feels a bit like a sucker punch. It’s like she’d plucked the feelings right out of Wato’s brain and put them into words. “You’re very observant,” Wato says dryly, the understatement of the century. “You… you were also a field medic?”

Amaya smiles weakly. “No, nothing so heroic. I used to work as a diplomat for the United States in Yemen for several years.” She swallows. “There was an airstrike — several, actually, while I was there. They were horrible, to say the least. I’ve never seen that kind of destruction. But what finally made me leave was being in the middle of one.” She meets Wato’s eyes. “I’m lucky to be alive but — well, to make a long story short, falling debris shattered both my femurs. It was a long time before I could walk again.”

Wato swallows, her throat suddenly dry. “I’m so sorry. This is barely comparable, but… something similar happened to me. While I was in Syria, a bomb went off in the hospital our relief team was assisting. I was lucky — very, very lucky — but my shoulder was embedded with shrapnel. It hasn't— it's never been the same since.” 

She doesn’t know what pushes her to be so open. She’s been reluctant to open up about her past since her last therapist turned out to be a manipulative psychopath, and she never thought she’d find herself speaking about memories so painful to someone she’d met all of fifteen minutes ago. It might be that Amaya’s aura puts her at ease, or that rather than pity, Amaya’s eyes are full of understanding. So Wato keeps talking, and it feels like a weight lifted off her shoulders that she hadn’t known was there. 

Eventually, Sherlock returns, grumbling about the incompetence of Tokyo police as she slips back into her seat. Amaya smoothly turns the conversation to Sherlock’s phone call, which sends Sherlock on a string of complaints, completely oblivious to the heavier conversation they’d been having while she was gone. Amaya smirks and winks at Wato when they meet eyes. Wato can’t help but smile back. 

She doesn’t know what to expect from Amaya but she thinks, as they pay for the meal and leave the cafe into a brilliantly sunny afternoon, rain glistening on the pavement, that she’s gained a friend. 

  
  
  


—

  
  
  


Sherlock gets assigned to a new case. It doesn’t go as well as they hope. There’s the suspect cornered in an alleyway in the suburbs of Tokyo, and then in the blink of an eye, there’s a gun in his hand. Seconds later, the half-dozen police officers surrounding them are holding firearms of their own and yelling. Wato is tackled to the ground, sure that the gravel is scraping up her palms and knees, sure that she’s back in a foreign land where a pointless, bloody war is being fought. 

She isn’t, but her stupid, terrified brain doesn’t  _ know _ that, so she ends up having a panic attack right there, in the middle of a police operation. 

And after all that, the suspect gets away. Wato thinks that maybe Sherlock is onto something when she calls the Tokyo Police a bunch of hacks.

She’d  _ like _ to go home, or maybe to the kickboxing gym to let out some of the tension that holds her shoulders in a rigid line, but Sherlock has to stay at the police station for some bureaucratic bullshit meeting. She keeps shooting Wato worried looks, like she’s worried she might combust on the spot, but Wato’s  _ fine _ , she’s  _ more _ than capable of taking the bus home by herself, she doesn’t need Sherlock to fucking baby her just because she forgets how to breathe sometimes. 

Then the angry, terrified adrenaline fades and Wato realizes that she’s exhausted, and maybe she  _ would _ like to wait this one out and just take a nice, uncomplicated taxi home on Sherlock’s dime.

But she also she can’t stand to be around anyone for at least a couple hours, so she winds up on the rooftop which  _ also _ unearths several unpleasant memories, but the air is cool and sharp, good for clearing her head. There’s a slight drizzle 

After what some time, someone pushes the rusty metal door open. A few seconds later, Sherlock sidles up next to her, resting her arms on the railing and looking out over the city. The scared, absurd part of Wato wants to drag her away, is acutely conscious of exactly how low the railing is, how easy it would be for Sherlock to topple right over the edge. She’s seen Sherlock topple right over the edge of sane behavior, of impulsivity and rationality and off of the roof of an eight-story building, and that’s more than enough for her, thank you very much.

She skews her mind away from that train of thought. It’s never done her any good before, and it certainly won’t start now.

“It’s raining,” Sherlock says.

Wato snorts. “Acute observation.”

“It isn’t like you to stand around in the rain. I know it’s been a while since you’ve practiced medicine, but surely even  _ you _ know that this is a fast track to catching a cold.”

“It’s just a drizzle,” Wato says, but she knows Sherlock’s right. They should get inside soon.

Sherlock is quiet. When she speaks again, it’s seemingly disjointed from their previous conversation. 

"There was this girl, when I was in university."

"In Cambridge?" Wato asks. 

"Mhmm," Sherlock says, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "That's how I knew."

Wato is familiar enough with Sherlock’s thought patterns that she knows that this is a continuation of their talk from days ago after Sherlock came home from the bar, a loose thread of conversation that Sherlock seems to have picked up again seemingly at random. She isn’t sure what to say, if anything she  _ could _ say would make Sherlock tell her more or shut her out completely. But it feels right to be silent, to let Sherlock speak, and so she doesn’t say a word. Eventually, Sherlock continues

"She was very smart and very, very good at what she did. She never gave me the time of day." Sherlock huffs out a breathy laugh. "She was studying criminal psychology. Back then, I had no idea what I was going to do with myself, but the way her mind worked, the way she could— just _know_ things. I wanted it. I wanted it for myself."

It irks something in Wato, that some girl from Cambridge who barely even spared a second glance for Sherlock —  _ Sherlock _ — had helped form something so fundamental about her. That anyone could ignore Sherlock at all, the massive presence that she is. Even when people despised Sherlock, the last thing they could do was  ignore her. 

“What happened to her?” Wato asks after a moment.

Sherlock shrugs, noncommittal. “No clue. We all move on with our lives.”

Wato lowers her eyes to the street below them, tiny people moving like ants, driving around in tiny cars. Everything seems so much smaller from up here. Insignificant, once you put it all into perspective.

“I guess so,” she says.

  
  
  


—

“Is it okay if Amaya comes over for dinner?” Sherlock fidgets like a nervous thirteen-year-old in the doorway of Wato’s room, like the joke of an adult that she is. 

Wato snorts. “I’m not your mom, Sherlock. You don’t have to ask me like that.”

“You’re not my mother? I never would’ve guessed, with the way you insist on organizing my  _ sock drawer _ for me.” 

“That’s just because you’re a  _ mess _ .” Then Wato actually processes what Sherlock had said. She frowns. “Dinner? Here?”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “I thought you liked her.”

“I do,” Wato says, a little surprised when she realizes that she actually means it. “I do, but our apartment kind of looks like a landfill right now.”

“Well,  _ mother _ , you’d better deal with that then,” Sherlock says, before she leaves for the living room. Wato rolls her eyes at that, but Sherlock is surprisingly cooperative when Wato starts cleaning their living room. 

“Can this go down the drain?” Wato asks, holding up a bottle of something clear and foul-smelling that might’ve been evidence from one of their recent cases, or Sherlock fucking around with unlabeled chemicals. 

Sherlock shrugs. “Probably. If it corrodes the pipes, we’ll blame it on Mrs. Hatano’s cat.”

“Right.” Wato sighs. “You’re taking this to the lab to get it properly disposed of.” She hands Sherlock the bottle gingerly.

Sherlock uncaps it and sniffs its contents. “I think it’s alkaline. The pipes will probably be fine, Wato.”

“That’s what you said last time, too, before we had to replace  _ half the plumbing _ , remember?”

Sherlock heaves a put-upon sigh as she recaps the bottle. “Fine. If you care so much about the plumbing.”

They finish most of the cleaning, and then Reimon calls Sherlock in to the police station for something and she leaves, the bottle in tow after Wato gives it a pointed look, promising to be back before Amaya arrives.

Of course, it doesn’t happen that way. Amaya, being perfect in every way, arrives early enough that Wato is still cooking and insists on helping Wato with the stew. She even brings a bottle of rosé and a cheesecake for dessert, winking as she hands over the wine for Wato to chill. 

“Honestly, I’m terrible in the kitchen most of the time,” she confesses, laughing a little. “But I figured even I could stir a pot. This smells great, Wato.” She smiles, and Wato can’t help but smile back. Amaya is kind and thoughtful and patient. Wato can’t imagine anyone better for Sherlock, and even if the thought kind of metastasizes into a knot in the pit of her stomach, the thought of Sherlock finally being happy, of both of them being happy together, keeps the smile on her face.

They decide to prematurely open the rosé as they wait for the stew to cook, and Wato insists that Amaya stop putting weight on her legs. 

“Sherlock will never know,” Amaya whispers to Wato as she pours out two generous glasses.

“Sherlock knows everything,” Wato whispers back.

“Yesterday, she asked me who the current emperor of China is,” Amaya says sagely.

Wato laughs. “She did  _ not _ .”

Amaya grins at her. “Between you and me, that one’s a little slow.” Then, Amaya’s smile goes sly. “Speaking of Sherlock being slow,” Amaya says, nonchalant, “are the two of you dating yet?”

Wato, who’d been mid-sip of rosé, nearly chokes, sure she’d misheard. She blinks, but Amaya is still looking at her expectantly. “Uh—” Wato stammers. “Aren’t  _ you _ and Sherlock dating?”

Amaya laughs. “Oh, no, honey. Not anymore. We did go on a few dates, but it didn’t work out.” She meets Wato’s eyes over the table. “It’s not that I don’t like her. She’s wonderful. But it was obvious from the beginning that she’s already got her heart set on someone,” she says, gentle. Wato feels her heart stop in her chest. “And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that someone’s got their heart set on her, too.”

“It’s not— it’s not like that between us.”

“Isn’t it?”

Wato, who feels like her entire worldview has just been reworked, can think of nothing to say to that. She chooses to set the table in stunned silence while Amaya hums, refilling their glasses. 

—

Sherlock arrives twenty minutes later. Her timing is sort of perfect — the stew's just been ladled into a serving bowl, still steaming, and the apartment is fragrant with the scent of cooking 

“What happened to being early?” Wato says by way of greeting, with her hands on her hips, looking for all the world like an angry housewife in her apron with a stew-covered ladle in her hand. 

“I would’ve been, if someone hadn’t decided to get all bossy about responsible chemical disposal.” She hangs her trenchcoat on the rack and tosses her keys onto the sofa, which she’ll no doubt forget about tomorrow and ransack their apartment searching for. “Besides, I didn’t say I’d be early. I said I’d get here before Amaya.”

“Well, you didn’t do that either!” Wato is about to say something about how Sherlock should stop being an actual  _ child _ while the guest that she invited is in the room, but then she catches Amaya hiding a smile as she looks between Sherlock and Wato. She raises an eyebrow at Wato, as if to say,  _ see? _ Wato scowls, rolling her eyes at Amaya. Amaya just shrugs and pours each of them a glass of rosé.

Dinner goes well. The three of them finish off a serving of stew meant for five people and gorge themselves on cheesecake. Both Sherlock and Amaya are flushed from the wine, the red sitting high on their cheeks so beautifully, in the way that must have inspired Michelangelo and Caravaggio and every great artist, a brushstroke of color over skin. Wato just feels drowsy and full and happy, wondering at the circumstances of her life that led up to two of the most gorgeous women in the world sitting in her kitchen giggling like children over a bottle of rosé.

—

Hours later, Amaya leaves, kissing both Sherlock and Wato on the cheek. She makes meaningful eye contact with Wato before she slips out the door, which Wato’s sure Sherlock picks up on but doesn’t mention. They tidy up the kitchen in silence, Sherlock wordlessly helping wash the dishes without the usual wrangling from Wato. It’s nice. Sherlock has a tiny smile on her face as she works, drying off the wet dishes Wato hands over, her elbow brushing Wato’s every few seconds. 

Eventually, though, Wato’s curiosity gets the best of her.

“Amaya told me the two of you aren’t dating anymore,” she says, eyes fixed on the bottom of the kitchen sink. “I thought you were happy together. Good for each other.”

Sherlock doesn’t react outwardly. She continues drying plates with her back to Wato, but Wato knows she heard her. Eventually, she sets the last plate down on the stack with an audible  _ clink _ in the heavy silence that suddenly permeates their kitchen. “We were,” she says quietly.

“Then why? I swear to god, Sherlock, if you’re trying to run away from the one thing that makes you happy—” 

“It’s not that,” Sherlock interrupts, whirling around to face her. “I  _ am _ happy. I was happy, even before you made it your personal mission to find me a date.”

“Really? You were happy when you were on your own,  _ congealing _ on our sofa—”

“I wasn’t on my own. I had you.”

Wato opens her mouth to retort. Closes it again. Sherlock is in front of her all of a sudden, holding Wato’s hand with her own nimble, delicate fingers, and Wato is dizzy with it.

“I had you,” Sherlock continues. “And I was happy. I know you’re not very observant at the best of times, but you’d have to be blind not to have noticed that there’s really only one person for me.”

“Oh,” squeaks Wato, ever the eloquent speaker. 

“It’s okay,” she says. “I know you don’t— It’s okay, I just wanted to—” She cuts herself off with a wry smile. “I just wanted you to know.”

Sherlock leans in and presses her lips to Wato’s temple in the smallest, gentlest kiss she's ever been given. It doesn’t feel like much, except it feels like  _ everything _ . It feels a whole lot like love, like fondness. It only lasts a few seconds before Sherlock pulls away.

And just like that, Sherlock pulls away and disappears behind the door of her bedroom, leaving Wato alone. With Sherlock gone, the expanse of their kitchen feels a whole lot emptier all of a sudden. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t you hate it when you’re in love with your roommate and you third wheel on one of her dates and fall in love with her girlfriend too
> 
> i've rly been struggling with this chapter lol i don't know if i'll ever be happy with it but here it is! hope you enjoy it xoxo


	4. Can I try again, try again, try again?

Things go back to normal after that, and even though half the time Wato feels so much like they’re enacting some kind of stupid farce that it’s laughable, they get through it. They  move on with their lives . And if Wato sometimes tenses up when she and Sherlock get a little too close, and Sherlock’s expression goes shuttered and pensive when she thinks Wato isn’t looking — well, they’ve survived worse.

It’s fine. Really. She and Sherlock can spend time together and laugh about things that only make sense to the two of them, and things are mostly the same. Wato can compartmentalize, she can forget — except she can’t, not really. 

It comes to her at odd moments. When they’re in the grocery store and Sherlock sneaks some kind of gourmet matcha-infused chocolate into their shopping basket. When Sherlock laughs at something —  _ really _ laughs, which is more of a quiet little huff than a laugh at all — and gets that stupid little smile on her face. In the quiet moments, when both of them are too spent to say anything, but the silence is enough. That's when the thought pops into her mind, eager and insistent.  _ Sherlock is in love with you. _

When, in the morning, Sherlock steals Wato’s fresh mug of piping hot coffee right out of her hand and downs half of it before giving it back and casually continuing on her path to the fridge.  _ Sherlock is in love with you. _

And what the hell does that mean, anyway, that Sherlock loves her? They could never get married, never… start a family, if that was something either of them wanted. They’d hardly be able to hold hands walking down the street without people staring. 

And there's another thought that niggles at the back of Wato's mind. It's stupid and irrational and probably should be the least of her worries, but Wato doesn’t even know if she’s —  _ allowed _ to be a lesbian. If she’s allowed to call herself that. She’s never even thought about it before Sherlock.

It must be simpler for Sherlock, she thinks. Sherlock, who likes big, dramatic gestures, who thrives on being the center of attention. Who just seems to  _ know _ things with a certainty that Wato’s never possessed. Sherlock’s always seemed to know exactly who she is, no matter how unconventional or frustrating or downright grating that person may be to some people. Wato, on the other hand, has always been Ordinary with a capital O. What business does she have holding another woman’s hand in public and calling herself a lesbian when she stutters ordering food over the phone? She isn't brave in the way that Sherlock and Amaya are. She cares about what people think, what people expect of her, and that's probably why she's hardly even thought to examine her sexuality before Sherlock came into her life and refused to be ignored. 

But, beyond the confusion of where she stands within abstract labels and categories, there’s something much simpler. There’s the way Sherlock makes her feel: like Ordinary Wato with a failed medical career and a back covered in ugly scars is an important and special person who does important and special things. Like Sherlock has bared every part of her, even those that are bitter and painful and viciously sad, and continues to want her all the same.

And Sherlock is in love with her.

—

In the daytime, Wato’s thoughts are a jumbled, confused mess of emotions that refuse to solidify into a clear conclusion, but at night, her subconscious takes free reign.

_ You cried over this woman’s grave, _ it says when she's too tired to think straight.  _ You used her trench coat as a pillow for days, when you thought you’d never see her again. _

_ You lay sleepless in the middle of the night, staring up at the ceiling because the bed was just too  _ soft _ , nothing like the couch in the drafty living room you’d gotten used to. You hoped and begged and prayed that you could just go _ back _ . _

—

Predictably, she ends up spilling her guts to Shibata over coffee.

“Sherlock told me she’s in love with me.” Wato takes a sharp breath, in and out, her heart pounding in her chest. There it is, out in the open. It doesn’t feel any more real than it had yesterday, or the day before.

Shibata hums. “I can’t lie, I sort of saw that one coming.”

They sit in silence for a moment.

“So, what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Shibata huffs out a laugh. “Left her hanging, did you?”

_ I think she left  _ me _ hanging, _ Wato doesn’t say.

Wato lets out a shaky exhale. “I wasn’t sure what I _wanted_ to say.” _What I wanted at all._

Shibata studies her, his eyes sharp. Eyes that seemed to see right through her. He’s definitely been spending too much time with Sherlock. “I think you are now, though,” he says.

“Yes,” Wato says. She’d thought about it for hours, tossing and turning in her sheets, and the answer had wavered in her mind all night. She hadn’t been sure, except she  must have been, because now the answer leaves her mouth easily, naturally.  _ Yes _ . 

— 

And, damn it, she's scared too, but it's obvious that Sherlock isn't going to push on this one. That she’s said all that she has to say.

It's like she expects Wato to just forget about it. Like it’s something inconvenient that they can just ignore until it goes away. Like this isn’t Sherlock’s  _ love _ they’re talking about, something so hard-earned and precious that you could probably count on one hand the number of people she’s deemed worthy of it. Like Wato’s world hasn’t just been turned on its head and rebuilt from scratch since Sherlock told her.

Sherlock has always taken the plunge for Wato, a little too literally at times. So maybe it's about time Wato does something of the same caliber. 

—

Wato finally cracks over breakfast the next day. Sherlock sits across the table from her, reading the news in a silk dressing gown even though there’s no one around to see her but Wato. She has drool at the corner of her mouth, and her hair sticks up every which way, and she squints at the paper like a disgruntled cat, and Wato just  _ can’t take it anymore _ . 

“I love you,” she blurts, her voice cutting through the easy silence that permeates their kitchen. Then, she actually realizes what she’s said. “Oh. I love you,” she repeats as if she’s testing the words on her lips. They come just as easily as they had the first time. She grins.

Sherlock stares, the newspaper forgotten in her hands, her eyes wide. She clears her throat. “Come again?” 

“I love you,” Wato says again, because now that she’s said it, it seems like she can’t stop.

Sherlock blinks at her as if she’s just dropped a nuclear-grade explosive on their kitchen table. Then, she seems to shake herself out of it. “I, uh. Love you, too,” she mumbles, biting back a smile. “Can we talk about this after breakfast?”

At that, Wato giggles, which she'd be caught dead doing any other day, but. She loves Sherlock, and Sherlock loves her, and Wato's just  _ happy _ , even though Sherlock’s already turned her attention back to the news. It’s Sherlock. She can’t help it.

  
  


—

Sherlock does hold her hand in public, but that’s not all. She also pulls Wato close in crowded places so as not to lose her, her hand fitting into the dip in Wato’s waist like it's meant to be there. Sometimes, she idly plays with Wato’s hands, absentmindedly bending her fingers and tracing the lines of her palm while she thinks. And sometimes, when she’s tired, she rests her chin on top of Wato’s head, which is annoying, but Wato likes the warmth of Sherlock pressing into her back like a shield separating her from the rest of the world. 

There _are_ people that stare, but that could just be because Sherlock weaves through the sidewalks of Tokyo so quickly that her trench coat billows behind her like a cape, or because she yells into her phone in rapid-fire English. Or maybe it is because of their ostentatious displays of lesbian affection, but Wato finds that she cares a lot less than she thought she would about what a couple of strangers think about her sexual preferences.

Besides, why should she care if people know about her and Sherlock? It’s not like she has anything to be ashamed of. Sherlock is so beautiful it hurts, and even if you ignored the fact that she’s a literal crime-solving genius, Wato’s pretty sure that as far as these things go, Sherlock is definitely out of her league. She says as much to Sherlock one morning, while they’re still curled up in Sherlock’s queen-sized bed. In response, Sherlock squints at her and says, “You’re an idiot,” before burrowing her face into Wato’s chest and refusing to get up for another half hour.

All the same, Wato feels herself loosen up. She begins to lean into Sherlock’s touch even when they’re out in the open where anyone can see them, because Sherlock runs hot, which is useful during the colder months, and she makes Wato feel safer, more grounded, when she starts to panic. And if sometimes, Wato just feels the urge to relish in the fact that her girlfriend is easily the best person within a hundred miles, then what of it?

  
  


—

  
  


The moment Amaya catches sight of them, she says, “You’re dating.” 

Wato had sort of worried that Amaya might not be quite as  _ okay _ with this, with her and Sherlock, as she’d let on. The last thing Wato wants to do is hurt Amaya, not after the kindness she's shown her, but when Amaya meets her eyes, her gaze is genuinely excited and warm and proud, with just the slightest tinge of sly smugness. Wato can’t help but beam back at her as she pulls out a chair across the table and sits.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is fuming. She gapes at Amaya. “What? How did  _ you _ know? We haven’t told anyone!” 

“You didn’t need to. I just  _ know _ these things,” Amaya says, the glint in her eye mirroring the one Sherlock gets when she’s given a particularly interesting case.

“Was it the burgundy coat? Was that what tipped you off?”

Amaya rolls her eyes, sharing an exasperated look with Wato. “Sherlock, as usual, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She holds out a menu for her. “You dish it out so well but you can’t take it when someone serves it back to you. Now, for god’s sakes, sit  _ down _ .” 

Sullenly, Sherlock sits and takes the menu. Wato knows she’s miffed about Amaya figuring it out before Sherlock could reveal the information in whatever grandiose way she'd undoubtedly planned to, and she expresses this by acting like a toddler in the middle of a tantrum. Wato sighs and puts a hand on her knee, to communicate that it’s not the end of the world to not be an omniscient overlord for once, and also that they’re having lunch with a friend at a high-class establishment and she’s being  _ rude _ . 

Sherlock startles at the touch, looks from Wato’s hand on her knee to Wato’s face as if the image doesn’t quite compute, and then smiles one of her small, secret smiles as she turns her attention back to the menu. Her knee moves a little in Wato’s direction, leaning into the touch. 

Amaya, who’s been surreptitiously watching the whole exchange from across the table, raises an eyebrow at Wato, her head leaning lazily against her palm as she observes. Wato shrugs in a sort of  _ yes, okay, you were right _ gesture. Amaya tilts her head in Wato’s direction, which she takes to mean  _ I usually am _ .

“Well!” Amaya says, clapping her hands together. The sound startles Sherlock out of her stewing, making her nearly drop the menu, prompting a snicker from Amaya and a huff of amusement from Wato. “The croquettes won’t order themselves! Be sure to order as much as you like, since Sherlock’s generously agreed to foot the bill.”

“Hey!” Sherlock exclaims, shooting Amaya a dirty look. 

In the end, Amaya insists on treating them, saying that she can’t possibly let the newlyweds pay for their own meal. She pulls Wato aside just as she and Sherlock are about to leave.

“I’m really happy for you both,” she whispers into Wato’s ear, pulling her into a hug. “And proud of you. Not Sherlock, though, because I’m sure she was as useless as usual about her feelings.”

Wato laughs. “Thank you,” she whispers back. “For lunch. And for everything else.”

Amaya squeezes her. “Come visit soon,” she says as they part ways, the afternoon sun beginning to dip on the horizon. 

  
  


—

  
  
  


Sherlock’s mouth is hot on her neck. She’s wearing that dark lipstick she likes so much and Wato just  _ knows _ that it’s getting everywhere and that it’ll be a pain in the ass to get the stains out later, but it’s  _ so fucking hot _ imagining Sherlock making a mess on her neck, knowing there’ll be evidence of this all over her body when she looks in the mirror later. 

Sherlock pulls her collar down as far as it’ll go, which isn’t very, so they have to pause while Sherlock wrangles Wato out of her top. “I can’t believe you still wear these stupid fucking sweaters,” Sherlock pants into her neck when it gets stuck somewhere around Wato’s shoulders, bunched up around her armpits. “I told you from the moment I _met_ you that they’re horrendous. And still, you insist on wearing them!”

“I dunno, it seems like you kind of like them,” Wato says with a nonchalance she  _ really _ doesn’t feel. She finally takes pity on Sherlock and slips the sweater over her head, dropping it somewhere behind her before she pulls Sherlock down into a searing kiss, all tongue and teeth. She tries to pull Sherlock closer, which leads them tumbling into the sofa, Wato falling into Sherlock’s lap. 

“I can’t believe we’re doing this on the sofa.”

Sherlock’s lips quirk. “Well, this was where you slept when you first moved in. It has some form of sentimental value.”

“‘Sentimental value’? I didn’t think you knew what those words meant.”

Sherlock rolls her eyes. “I’m not completely emotionless, you know.”

“I know,” Wato says, smiling down at Sherlock. “You love me.”

Sherlock sighs, as if Wato’s a very tiresome and irritating presence in her life, but she kisses the corner of Wato’s mouth which is answer enough. 

Wato’s done this before, but it’s never quite felt like  _ this _ , like everywhere she and Sherlock touch is charged and electric. At the same time, it’s the most comfortable Wato’s ever been. If it were anyone else, she’d be acutely aware of the mass of scar tissue that is her shoulder, of the softness of her belly, of the many other ways she falls short. But this is Sherlock, who’s loved her for so long, who is the best friend she's ever had. For once, Wato finds that she isn’t worried about a thing.

And then, in one smooth motion, Sherlock flips their positions and sinks down to her knees between Wato’s thighs. 

“Oh,” Wato says, breathless as she looks down at Sherlock all sprawled out on their living room floor with her hands on Wato’s thighs. There’s a novelty to it — Sherlock, who usually strives to be the most uncooperative person in the room and insists on getting her way, staring up at her adoringly as if she’d do anything Wato asked of her in that moment. Wato’s stomach lurches with arousal. 

Sherlock presses a soft kiss to the inside of Wato’s thigh. It’s barely anything, just the barest hint of her lips, but it makes Wato shiver all the same. “Do you want me to?” Sherlock murmurs into the heated skin of Wato’s thigh.

Wato inhales sharply, her eyes fixed on Sherlock. “ _ Do _ I,” she breathes, her fingers threading into Sherlock's hair. Her thighs spread to bring Sherlock even closer to her. 

  
  


—

  
  


Once the two of them are spent, Wato close to falling asleep as she lies half on top of Sherlock on the sofa, Sherlock mutters into her ear: “Bet you’re glad it didn’t work out with Tamaki.” 

Wato smacks the side of Sherlock’s ribs. “ _ Takaya _ ,” she corrects, exasperated. Sherlock shakes with silent laughter beneath her.

“And for the record,” Wato says, pushing herself up on her elbow to look Sherlock in the eye, “you’re never going out with anyone else again.”

Sherlock gulps, her pupils dilating with want as she looks up at Wato. Her hands tighten at Wato’s waist, and she smiles up at her, playful and full of fondness. “Okay. I can live with that.”

_ fin. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don’t know how noticeable it is but this fic was written piecemeal over the course of (probably) a little over a year. i’m REALLY glad to have finally finished it lol.
> 
> i think all the watolock fic i've written over the past two years is where i hit my stride as a writer (even though my writing from back then would probably make me cringe now haha), and i’m glad i got back into writing watolock even though i haven’t watched miss sherlock in two years and am just relying on v faded memories of the series to get by. a biiiig thank you to everyone who’s commented and left kudos because it means vvv much to me and i never would’ve found the motivation to keep writing without it <3 mwah


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